


Fools and Angels, Or; Why The Lord Created Men

by astrea_vita



Category: Good Omens (TV), The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types
Genre: A Dauphin Has Been Lost, Canon-Typical Violence, Escapes, Everyone is Dramatic and Nobody is Punctual, Extraordinary Amounts of Gender, Fencing, Fighting, French Revolution, Georgian Period, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Miracles, Multi, Period-Typical Sexism, Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Spies & Secret Agents, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-12-20 21:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21063689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrea_vita/pseuds/astrea_vita
Summary: Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley ever conclusively established whose influence was responsible for the Reign of Terror, but both interfered with it shamelessly despite their respective orders.





	1. The Falcon and the Crow

**Author's Note:**

> This will not be as fast and loose with the historical accuracy as the respective canons, but still pretty fast and loose because historical accuracy is more like guidelines than actual rules.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "May God have mercy on you, Monsieur, for you are surely damned for what you do!"

_April, 1793_

The French government was rearranging the furniture again.

Among other things, this had involved renaming the buildings, which meant that if you asked for directions to the headquarters of the new Committee of Public Safety, you were as likely to get a lecture for calling it the Pavillon de Flore as you were a confused stare from someone who didn't know it was called the Pavillon de l'Égalité now.

Both had happened to Crowley in the past ten minutes, only for him to find that Chauvelin's new office wasn't in the Pavillon anyway. Then, when he found the office, Chauvelin wasn't there, and he couldn't find anyone who knew where the meeting was - presumably because they had all convened there by now. He _had _seen Armand out on the Place de la Révolution, but was still getting an earful about the Pavillon when Armand staggered down from the wooden scaffolding, face clouded with shame and a condemned woman's spit, and disappeared back inside.

Crowley picked his way back through the noisy crowd on the Place, following someone who looked at least vaguely like they knew where they were going, and left that off to check Chauvelin's old office in case its new occupant knew where he was.

He swung the door open and stuck his head in. "_Pardonnez__-_er." He'd found Armand. Startled the hell out of him, to boot. "Oh, close enough, you'll do."

"Mon- Citizen Crowley." Ashen-faced and shaky, Armand cleared his throat and tucked his handkerchief into his pocket.

"Couldn't find your boss, do you -?" Crowley considered him. "Hold that thought."

He entered and shut the door behind him, pulling a silver flask from his pocket. Armand gave him a look when he uncapped it and held it out - a charmingly complicated look, one that reminded Crowley of so many surprise inspections. Ranking officers of composure and polite confusion scurrying about, making sure flustered suspicion stood up straight and kept his mouth shut, shoving poor, drunken, unwitting relief into a cart and tossing a blanket over him. He saw that look a lot, what with being in the temptation business.

Armand stared at the embossed serpent on the side, and took a generous sip. Crowley sat on the desk, took it back, and drank from it himself to be companionable. It constantly floored him, that human ability to see an obvious trap and still decide to walk right into it.

"I... beg your pardon," said Armand once he'd collected himself. "You were looking for Chauvelin?"

"Ehh, take your time. Never been punctual in my life and I'm certainly not about to start for him." Crowley considered. "You're not in any kind of trouble, are you?"

"No." Armand eyed him warily. "Not unless you know something I don't."

"Nah, just checking. You're one of the few people around here I find tolerable." Crowley mock-grimaced. "Don't tell Paul, he'll get jealous."

Armand let slip an incredulous huff, almost a laugh. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Saw what happened out there." Crowley nodded toward the window. In the space of their silence came another rattle of drums, a clang, a volley of shouts. "You didn't think it would be like this, did you?"

Armand hesitated. "Of course, when it all began, I never expected, but I-I'm not, I don't doubt the Committee's-" 

"I know," said Crowley. "I didn't either."

Armand stared at him. He nodded once, slow and measured. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because caution's not what I'd call your strong suit, and you're going to need it. Keep your head down_, _alright? Don't want to see you lose it. _C__omprends?_"

"_Comprends."_

"_Bien._" Crowley hoisted himself off the desk and sprang to his feet. "Where've they put Chauvelin?"

Armand led him through the ornate halls of the old palace until they came to a large study. He eased the heavy door open with the air of a schoolboy hoping to slip into the classroom without attracting too much notice. Crowley wasn't sure why he bothered - they were all spies here, even if a few of them were polite enough to nod and turn their focus back to the head of the table. Even then, it was only for Chauvelin to break off mid-sentence and fix them with a withering look.

Crowley shouldered past Armand and strolled towards the vacant seat next to Chauvelin. "Good morning, citizens," he said airily. "What'd I miss?"

"Crowley. You're late."

"_You're_ lucky St. Just found me, or I might never have made it. Couldn't find you anywhere." Crowley scaled the arm of the chair and insinuated himself between it and the table.

"Lucky, indeed," Chauvelin muttered. "St. Just, if you'll remain," he said aloud, indicating a seat further down the table. "We may as well bring you both up to speed." He passed Crowley a scrap of paper and an 'are you quite settled?' expression. "Does this mean anything to you?"

Crowley wriggled in his seat for good measure, accidentally knocked his other neighbor's leg with his own, and plucked the inked red flower from his fingers and held it high, pretending to adjust his spectacles.

"No-pe. Should it?" He sniffed it experimentally, and licked it for good measure. Never mind that he could smell better with his tongue, it was worth it for the stares.

"It was found a few hours ago in a cell of the Conciergerie, which housed the formerCount de Beaulieu. The Count was found guilty of treason by the new Tribunal and was scheduled for execution this morning. The jailer reported that he was granted a visit with his wife and son, as well as last rites with a priest, and that he was handed over to the appropriate guards to be conveyed to the Place."

"And...?"

"Somewhere between the cell and the tumbrel, the Count, the wife, and the boy all -" Chauvelin huffed in frustration. "Disappeared."

"I see," said Crowley, closing his mouth and lowering his eyebrows. He drew a quill and some paper out of his cuff and started scribbling."What do we know so far?"

"The jailer does not appear to have been involved; he reported to us the moment he got word of the Count's disappearance, and we found no trace of bribe money. We suspect imposters among the guards who took them away. A different set, answering to Captain Gagnon -" Chauvelin gestured to one of the men at the table, "- returned from the Place and informed the jailer of the Count's absence. We're collecting the ledgers from the gatekeepers, but they have orders to search every cart thoroughly, and none of them saw anything out of the ordinary."

"What about the priest?"

"We are still inquiring."

Crowley fluttered the scrap of paper in his fingers. "And your infiltrators have left you this on purpose?"

"So it would appear."

"Cheeky buggers. Anything like this happened before?"

"The flower is a first," Chauvelin said dryly.

"Right. I don't recognize the device, but I'm sure it's deliberately obscure. Could even be a false trail, if they wanted to implicate someone else," Crowley added, thinking out loud. "But they want you to know what they've done, and it may be a warning that they'll try this again. Mm, not in the same way, though, unless they're not as clever as they look. Tighten things up with the guards if you want, but be on the lookout for something else entirely."

"...Yes, thank you." Chauvelin's tone said _Maybe you would like to run this meeting?, _but several of the nods around the table had a grudgingly impressed quality, which was better than any witty retort. Crowley contented himself with scribbling catty remarks in his notes as the others went around and shared what information they had.

"Naturally, this occurred at the worst possible time," Chauvelin concluded after dispensing instructions. "I'll have St. Just draft a report for Danton's Committee, if you could all see to it that he has records of your inquiries so far. We must make it absolutely clear that we are acting in haste and with the utmost thoroughness and discretion. And if the Count and the conspirators have indeed fled Paris, then we must take every measure to keep this from happening again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, was anyone going to tell me that Chauvelin's first name was also Armand, or was I supposed to find that out when I added his tag myself? (Does it come up in on of the other books?) I'm drawing heavily from the '82 movie, and went with 'Paul' based on that.  
If you haven't listened to the musical soundtrack, you're missing out on a treat. This entire fic was brought to you by The Creation of Man and this chapter ties closely to Madame Guillotine and Falcon in the Dive.


	2. A Night at the Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France and England are at war, the Reign of Terror is in full swing, and the Scarlet Pimpernel is still at large. With a little backchannel haggling, the French government finally arranges to send Chauvelin to England, and the height of fashionable society, to head the investigation on the Pimpernel's home territory.

_Six months later..._

The French government was still rearranging the furniture, and they still hadn't caught the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The Committee of Public Safety, now more or less in charge of the government, had just passed a law that basically said that you could get arrested for the faintest whiff of disloyalty, and Crowley figured that this was a fine time for him to get out of dodge.

He'd had enough of that business back when he was an angel.

Sure, they didn't let you get too far out of line Downstairs, but you still got enough leeway to complain about things. Took the edge off.

Things were also getting awkward for him because Chauvelin's division was in charge of dealing with subversion from foreign agents, and once they'd twigged on the idea that the Scarlet Pimpernel was an Englishman, Chauvelin became even more determined to keep Crowley where he could see him. People had already been whispering about Crowley anyway, since he had at one point or another said something scathing about half the people currently in charge, back when it hadn't occurred to anybody that they'd actually be put in charge. But he'd been useful, or had at least continued to give them the impression that he was being useful, and before now, that had been enough for them to tolerate him.

Chauvelin was also growing twitchier and more snappish each time the Pimpernel made off with a new handful of prisoners, which made sense, given the Committee's tendency to make an example of their generals every time they suffered a defeat out on the borders. Crowley seriously doubted the wisdom in this, but Armand's cousin Louis seemed to be the last word on the subject, and anyone who was currently earning the nickname 'Archangel of Terror' was not somebody he planned to offer constructive criticism.

He'd sent a note Downstairs to let them know that his presence was no longer required in France, and began to quietly tidy up loose ends and make plans to sneak out across the Channel in the dead of night, when a better opportunity handed itself to him.

"A whole troop?"

"A company of fifteen." Chauvelin tightened his lips, trying not to grind his teeth.

Crowley gave a low whistle and tried not to sound too impressed. He had _so _many questions. Where were they getting the horses? Where were they getting the uniforms - a laundry? Otherwise, why weren't Chauvelin's officers finding cellars full of unconscious guards in their underthings?

He missed being able to think out loud, but he had to be careful about that now. Unlike his actual employers, sometimes this lot took his suggestions seriously.

"Show me that list again, would you? I thought there were only ten."

"The others, presumably, were conspirators."

"Are they just taking whoever they can get? I thought the League was going for their aristocratic friends, but -" he recognized a couple of the names, and was about to say that they weren't even proper royalists, but thought better of it. "Only a few of them with titles in this bunch."

"We suspect their main target was the de Tournay family. They were held in a private cell. The rest were condemned in yesterday's trials, and were taken from the carts in the May Courtyard."

"Make up the rest of the troop, I guess. And the gatekeepers didn't notice near half of them were a _literal _monstruous regiment of women. Makes sense, I suppose, s'not where they'd be looking. You said de Tournay, who're they again?"

"You may perhaps recall that the former Count de Tournay used to serve as ambassador to England, and was recently called upon to accompany me to London," Chauvelin said in the voice he used when he caught Crowley scribbling little cartoons on his notes during meetings.

"Right. No, hang on, not what I was thinking." Chauvelin waited him out for a few seconds, until Crowley shook his head. "Never mind, it'll come back. Are you still going to London?"

"I may well have to try a completely different tack." Chauvelin sank into his chair, rubbing his forehead. "Now that he is indebted to the Scarlet Pimpernel, the former Count would only make it _more_ difficult for me to discover him."

"What was it you were hoping for, in the first place?" Chauvelin glared up at him from under his hand, but Crowley went on. "You were looking for someone to smooth your way, hm? Introduce you to people. Open some doors. The thing is -" he tucked his hands behind his back and meandered a pace or two towards the desk. "You could still go to London, it's a good plan. Get the right tongues wagging, they'll do half your work for you. Not having de Tournay may be a setback, but you don't _need_ him, really. I mean -" Crowley perched on the edge of the desk and raised his eyebrows over his glasses. "_I_ know people in London. If you needed a back-up plan. Thought that was the sort of thing you'd had in mind for me in the first place, actually, when you got me involved." 

C hauvelin raised his head and considered him with a half-smile. "You'll forgive me if  it hadn't occurred to me that your variety of connections extended to London's more, ah, respectable circles. "

"Well , I  can't say that I would think of them as respectable," Crowley said airily. " But  some of them would certainly want people to keep thinking they are. " 

Chauvelin  looked pleased, veiled as it was with his wry caution and scepticism. He  cleared his throat. "I'd have to propose the idea to Citizen Robespierre."

"'Course."

Chauvelin groaned and wrapped a hand around his forehead again. "I'll have to notify Citizen Robespierre that the Pimpernel has made off with the de Tournays."

"Best of luck with that," Crowley said sympathetically.

"How soon could you be ready to sail for England?"

Crowley shrugged. "Soon as you give the word."

Chauvelin nodded a dismissal , and reached for paper and quill. 

Crowley slid off the desk and  took his leave , closing the door behind him. He stood still just on the other side, squinting at nothing in particular for a second or three, and apparently that did the trick. He opened the door and stuck his head back in. 

"Suzanne de Tournay!" he announced as Chauvelin covered his startle with a shuffle of papers and an irritable expression. She was only listed as _the former Mlle. de Tournay _on the roll, which was why it took him so long. "Wasn't she friends with Marguerite?"

*

_Covent Garden Theatre, London  
October, 1793_

"Have a nice chat with Lord Grenville?" Crowley sidled back in to the Foreign Minister's private box, only to note that said Foreign Minister was conspicuously absent. He'd left Chauvelin to it in the _entr'acte _and had popped out to get a snack and perform some minor inconveniences. 

“Tolerable enough,” said Chauvelin, eyes tracking the movements between boxes. “I wouldn't say he's pleased about any of this, but he seems to realize that he can’t afford _not_ to keep an eye on France.”

"D'you reckon he's coming back?" The curtain was rising for the second act, and Grenville was still visiting someone else's box.

"I daresay he's found more palatable company," Chauvelin said idly, as if Crowley couldn't hear the vein pulsing in his eyelid.

"Uh-huh. Isn't that the Countess de Tournay? _Awkward._ Oh, he is coming back, never mind._" _

Chauvelin looked at him sourly and turned his gaze back to Marguerite's box on the opposite side of the house. "Does she never go anywhere without a host of hangers-on?"

"Good way to keep brooding former suitors out of her hair. Stop - stop craning your neck, honestly, do I need to get you a jealousy glass?"

"The whole theatre is looking at Lady Blakeney, and at each other," Chauvelin pointed out.

"Yes, but they're _subtle_ about it. Well, mostly," Crowley amended, flourishing a little wave across to the opposite balconies as yet another haughty-looking MP’s wife eyed them with a decidedly frosty look. "Lord forbid anybody actually came here for _Orfeo_."

Marguerite had, apparently. Her husband wandered off to attend the Prince of Wales, and she dismissed her cohort of admirers to listen alone.

"What were you going to do, anyway? Corner her alone for a cozy little chat about international espionage?" Crowley had done more than his share of conspiring in opera boxes, but espionage was all very well - pestering your ex was just tacky.

Chauvelin shushed him, because Lord Grenville was opening the door to the box. Crowley shushed him back, just to be petty. Grenville surveyed them like a headmaster charged with a pair of bickering schoolboys, and shushed them both.

The occupants of the next box over shushed them all.

Crowley grinned and leaned his elbows on the railing as the orchestra swelled with foreboding. He and Aziraphale had been at the premiere of _Orfeo _in Vienna back in '62, and had barely seen much of each other since except to trade off assignments.

"I don't see why they've got to have another go at it," Crowley had complained at the time. "'S just gonna end the same way."

Aziraphale had given a long-suffering sigh, because Crowley had been complaining about tragic drama and the concept of _katabasis_ since, approximately, they had been invented, and said, "Well, I'm sure the music will be a treat."

Crowley refused to openly concede the point, mostly because the whole concept of opera still baffled him a bit, but _Orfeo _had had one thing going for it.

Human versions of the afterlife tended to be much more impressive than the actual one, which could be a tad embarrassing, but did wonders for Crowley's reputation. Fear and Hell went hand-in-hand, of course, but Hell lacked the artistry to replicate any sense of the sublime, awe-inspiring grandeur that was Heaven's wheelhouse back in the day. _Hell's_ specialty was the sort of fear that you found in armies and townspeople under siege - petty, banal, and mind-numbing, spiced up with unpredictable bouts of vicious destruction. Lately, he was starting to suspect that the human capacity for existential terror had come to surpass anything Hell _or_ Heaven had to offer. 'The mind is its own place,' indeed.

All this to say, Crowley enjoyed the Chorus of the Furies. It was _spooky._ There were _shivers_ involved. It was much more fun than anything his lot could have come up with.

More fun than most of what was going on in France, period. At least his work was practically done - all he had to do now was find a way to give Chauvelin the slip. He could settle back down in London for a bit, coast on his recent commendation.

Chauvelin, as it turned out, managed to beat him to the punch, mumbling an excuse and ducking out about ten minutes before the end of the act.

Crowley offered Grenville a look and a shrug, lounging back on his chair and surveying the other dark boxes until Chauvelin appeared in the shadows behind Marguerite. Probably thought he was being sneaky. To be fair, probably nobody else in the house could see him - Crowley just had good eyes.

He kept half an eye on their exchange, but Chauvelin didn't seem to be getting anywhere with their conversation. Marguerite's posture grew progressively more rigid, her expression stony. She rested her fan closed against her left cheek, just shy of prodding Chauvelin in the chin. When she tilted it up against her left ear, Crowley took that as his cue.*

*Certain flavors of historian will take it upon themselves to inform readers that the language of fans had been invented as a marketing gimmick to boost the sale of fans in the 1820s, and had fairly little application in Victorian courtship, despite what the romance novelists would tell you. Historians and enthusiasts for Victorian romances, in their assumptions that the language was intended for demure young ladies to encourage their suitors across crowded ballrooms, have managed to overlook the previous century's organic development of fan languages by young ladies _for each other_. An unwanted suitor may ignore the significance of a gesture with a fan as easily as he will ignore reluctance or discomfort in his intended's voice or words. Conversely, other women know 'please help me get rid of this guy' when they see it.

"I hope he isn't making a pest of himself," he said when Marguerite admitted him entry and held out a hand for him to kiss.

"Not to an old friend, perhaps," she said smoothly, "but we are fortunate the act is ending, or else the audience might have lost their patience with us. I am delighted to see you both in London - I'd heard from Armand that you and Chauvelin were colleagues now."

Well, _that_ was a loaded bit of innocuous small talk. He could taste it in the air - the same miasma of suspicion that permeated most of France now coiling between them.

"Well, he sends his love, and he's sorry he couldn't accompany us. Unfortunately, somebody had to keep the place running while we're over here." _Definitely_ loaded. That was one of her Acting Faces. Something was up. Crowley was just going to keep talking. "Same goes for Mademoiselle Lange. She's been a creditable _Phedre_ in your absence, although the _Comedie_ set still misses you something terrible." He bit down on saying _what's left of them,_ because that sort of jab was intended for other people.

"Very kind of you to pass on their regards. And will you also be attending my Lord Grenville's ball tomorrow evening? Perhaps you may have a chance to tell me more of our old circles."

"Wouldn't miss it, but I hope you'll pardon me if I fail to ask for the honour of a dance."

That nearly got him one of her real smiles. "A pardon will not be necessary. Indeed, you are the soul of consideration."

Crowley made a face, but was spared having to answer when someone knocked at the door of the box, and she called for them to enter.

The door swung open and revealed a tall, languid-looking blond man who could only have been Lady Blakeney's husband, and -

"My dear," Sir Percy said to his wife. "Do look who I've found."

"Mr. Fell!" Her face lit up and the rigid set of her shoulders eased.

"Lady Blakeney." Aziraphale accepted her hand with a gallant bow. He lifted his eyes and flickered them to Chauvelin and Crowley. "I do hope we aren't interrupting your visit?"

His voice was too exquisitely gracious to imply that he had come precisely with the aim of interrupting her distressing interview with such a pair of inconsiderate rogues, so naturally Crowley was the only one who picked up on it. (He envied Aziraphale that talent, because he personally never could pull off that whole 'butter wouldn't melt' trick and settled for a tone that was constantly implying things.)

"Not in the least," she said with a warmth born of gratitude. "You are most welcome. These gentlemen are old acquaintances, here on business from Paris. They were merely stopping in to pass on some news of my brother."

Crowley assumed an expression of vague interest in the newcomers, and Aziraphale smiled pleasantly at them both and said "Oh, how wonderful."

Total discretion in the presence of humans wasn't a hard and fast tenet of the Arrangement, but they'd agreed to start making it a habit after one too many incidents where their respective social circles overlapped and Made Things Awkward.

"Ah! Monsieur Shaw-velin!" Sir Percy drawled. "Well, fancy that. And, er - bless me, I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Do introduce me to your friend, Shawvelin, there's a good chap."

"My colleague, Citizen Crowley, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin.

"An honor, sir." Crowley bowed with only half his usual sarcasm. Anyone who could make Chauvelin use that tone of voice was clearly about to make his evening a lot more fun, although if Sir Percy tried to call him 'Monsieur Crawly,' he'd have to bite him.

Sir Percy crooked a smile. "The honor is mine, I assure you. But tell me, sir, if it's not too impertinent - does your French government make citizens of Englishmen now?"

"Well, that's gotten a bit trickier as of recently," Crowley admitted. "But earlier on, they were letting just about any devil sign up, long as he stayed a year and paid his taxes, so now they're stuck with me."

Sir Percy guffawed, and Aziraphale shot him a look that probably came off as perturbed to anyone who didn't know better, but that Crowley parsed as a combination of _'I suppose you think you're funny'_ and '_since when have you ever paid taxes?'_

"Well, now, do allow me to present my friend, Mr. Fell. Demmed clever chap, ever so musical," Sir Percy said aimlessly. "I'm sure I don't follow half what he says, but my wife seems to know what he's on about, so there you are."

Chauvelin raised one eyebrow upon being approached for a handshake, and the other when Aziraphale pronounced that he was delighted, and beamed as if he was going to make it his personal mission to melt Chauvelin's icy, jaded heart - the first and probably the only friendly greeting he'd be getting tonight, as the English upper classes were a bit intent on snubbing him at the moment.

Aziraphale shook Crowley's hand in turn, which was apparently pretext for a complicated expression that was pretending to be reserved courtesy, but had definite shades of '_what the Hell do you think you're playing at,_' and possibly something cutting about his hair.

Actually, between the impish twinkle behind Sir Percy's quizzing-glass and the way he was ignoring Marguerite's patented _don't you start anything_ look, Crowley's _avant-garde_ crowning coil was about to get it from the foremost authority on London fashion, were it not for the rest of London society descending on their box for intermission visits. Chauvelin excused them with a few hasty pleasantries, and shuffled him out through a corridor full of rustling skirts and whispers.

*

_"Sooo." _Crowley stretched a long leg across the carriage floor and prodded Chauvelin in the ankle with the toe of his boot. "How was your chat with Marguerite?"

"Lady Blakeney's sympathies are quite altered," Chauvelin said flatly. "She refuses to assist our investigations."

"Gone native, hmm?" Crowley _tsk_ed. "Any sign she might know anything already, though?"

"None, though with her talents for concealment, there can be no guarantee that she doesn't."

"So does this mean we still have to be charming at parties ourselves, then?"

"It would appear so."

"Well, that'll be fun."

Chauvelin made a noise of disgruntled assent. "Do you know anything of this Mr. Fell?"

Crowley gave him a blank look. "That chap with Blakeney? Don't think so. Why? Make something of him?"

Chauvelin pursed his lips._ "Décadent. Il a des mains souples." Indulgent. He has soft hands._ "Not as dim as Blakeney," he allowed.

As if Chauvelin had ever lifted a beam or held a bit of rigging in his life. Crowley snorted. "That's... that's what you say about literally all of them. Look, I know how you feel about aristocrats, you don't have to keep telling me."

Chauvelin waved dismissively. "Yes, but there's something singular about him, something odd. Not cunning - rather the opposite really, he looks quite guileless. The sort of honest face that others would be quick to confide in. He may be worth watching, now that we've been introduced."

"Right. Are you planning on doing that, or-"

"Perhaps you might, if you're not too engaged with your other contacts," Chauvelin said in a tone that suggested that Crowley had only invented his other contacts as an excuse to take naps.

"Yes, I'm sure I can work something out." Crowley exaggerated a sigh. "Sent some cards round when we got here, I'll start bright and early. What time are we meeting tomorrow?"

*

"Terribly curious sort, that Crowley fellow," said Sir Percy. "Did you ever meet him before, my dear? Er..." Lady Blakeney was staring through the dark, through the wood siding of the carriage, far away. "My dear?"

"Oh? Yes, quite." She withdrew from her reverie and into the folds of her cloak. "He was often at my gatherings. It surprised me, seeing him here with Chauvelin. I could never have imagined him for a diplomat."

"What sort of man is he? If not a diplomatic one, eh?"

"Indeed, not so much a man as a very gadfly," she said, warming to the subject. "He was rather a favourite among the scientists - an inquiring mind, and mercilessly provoking with it. I've seen him needle the most stoic of tempers until they're practically beside themselves. Sometimes without even intending to!"

"And to think," said Sir Percy, "he seemed such an amiable chap."

Aziraphale hid a smile. "You said he was often at your gatherings, my lady? How on earth did he ever get himself invited back?"

"My dear Mr. Fell, that's precisely_ why_ I invited him back. It's not an intellectual salon unless someone's been challenged to a duel over the finer points of _Du Contrat Social_."

Aziraphale said, "Good Heavens," though he meant '_oh, that sounds about right'. _

"Did you say they had word from your brother, m'dear? Everything well with Armand?"

Lady Blakeney fussed with her cloak again, her voice light, but high and hurried. "Well, of course I was disappointed to hear that he wasn't free to accompany them from Paris. Apparently his duties require him there in Chauvelin's absence, but he sends his love."

"Good, good," said Sir Percy absently as the carriage clattered up to the front of his townhouse. "Well, then. You'll join me for a nightcap, Fell?"

Aziraphale trailed in after them, courteously pretending to take no notice of Lady Blakeney's wan smile as she excused herself to bed, and Sir Percy's careless wittering as _he _pretended to take no notice of Lady Blakeney's troubled countenance. He did trade a sympathetic glance with the steward, who took gloves and hat and notice with a half-tilt of his chin.

Chambers may have been the soul of discretion, but he was also practical and a bit of a good sport. One had to be, if one was required to aid and abet Sir Percy's many forms of tomfoolery.

Aziraphale blessed Lady Blakeney with a sound sleep and pleasant dreams - and did the same for Chambers, since this was one of the things he could do of his own power without garnering too much notice from Above - and followed the cloud of abject longing that Percy trailed in his wake until he reached the study.

Aziraphale sighed. Ridiculous boy.

With the fire stoked and the brandy poured, Percy's features both eased and sharpened - the lazy set of his mouth and his half-hooded eyelids drawn alert with the kind of hushed liveliness one saw in schoolboys who were up past their bedtime.

"Well, well. It would seem the French government has decided to make our lives even more interesting."

"Is this likely to be a troublesome development?" asked Aziraphale.

"Not unduly, I hope, but precautions will be necessary. We can't say for certain why Chauvelin has been sent to England, but he'd no doubt give a great deal to discover the Pimpernel's identity and put a stop to all our work. He's of a determined nature, and gifted with some measure of keenness, but he is as devout an acolyte for the Republic as a holy man on crusade, and that offers us a certain ability to predict his movements and show him what he expects to see. This Crowley chap, I fear, is quite another matter."

Aziraphale sipped his brandy and schooled his expression to grave concern. "You expect the gadfly to sting, then?"

"Or worse. The troubles in Paris have warped some of her brightest minds into monsters in the space of a few short years; the rest sent to exile, or the hemlock. I warrant this man who thinks too much is now some lean and hungry Cassius. _Such men as he be never at heart's ease, Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous," _Percy mused. "I take him not just for a radical and a seditionist, but a mercenary. Possibly even a former privateer - did you note the mark on his right temple?"

"I did, at that. Looked positively fiendish. He might belong to one of those secret societies," Aziraphale offered - and, because he couldn't help himself, added, "The Hellfire Club, or something of that nature.*"

*Crowley had been loosely affiliated with a chapter of the Hellfire Club some decades back, because that sort of thing was expected of him, though he hadn't particularly enjoyed it. It was really the sort of thing meant for humans who needed to get it out of their system, once the threat of getting tortured and burned for a spot of heresy was finally starting to wear off.

"Very astute, sir, I hadn't considered that." Percy tapped his chin with his quizzing glass, and Aziraphale beamed. "But then, why not take more care to hide it? If he shows his mark on purpose and hides his eyes from view, what does that tell us?"

Aziraphale's mouth twitched. "That he fancies himself a mysterious scoundrel?"

Percy chuckled, and looked almost as surprised by the sound as he was by the suggestion that prompted it. Too used to laughing on command at things that weren't all that funny, the poor boy.

His face sobered, and he stared into the crackling hearth. "It does trouble me, to see him here and know that my brother-in-law remains in Paris. We may be called to act at any moment, and I fear that my wife's old friends will further impose on her hospitality, given they've shown no compunction in doing so already."

"Lady Blakeney seems to have the measure of them, but if it brings you peace of mind, I will do whatever is in my power to make sure they cause her no further distress."

"I'm greatly obliged to you. Did it strike you, then, that their little interview was troubling to her?"

"Did it _not_ strike you so?"

"It _did. _That is rather why I ask."

Aziraphale looked vexed. "And yet it's me you're asking."

Percy made a sheepish expression and fiddled with his cuffs. "Perhaps I, er, first wanted to make sure it was something, rather than nothing, if you take my meaning. Didn't want to seem... bit of a delicate matter."

"If it's not for my ears -" Aziraphale began with a little more patience.

"Nothing like that, I assure you." Percy sighed. "Chauvelin was, at one time, hopeful of winning Marguerite's heart. He was somewhat in her favour around the time we met and I daresay he thinks I stole her away, right from under his nose."

"He might be forgiven for thinking so, if he knew how often you do steal people away from under his nose."

Percy smiled. "That she had her doubts about him before then was plain to me. His own growing fanaticism had already begun to frighten her, and it was far more convenient for him to see me as the cause once their paths began to diverge." He stood suddenly, and stepped the pace or two to the mantle to lean nearer the warmth. "But she did care for him once, and I fear that any of my questions about him would... not be taken in the spirit that they're meant."

"At this point, she might be relieved to think you'd care enough to be jealous," Aziraphale muttered. Percy blinked in surprise at him, and Aziraphale blinked in surprise at himself, glancing at his glass.

"Gad, sir. My wife is no more a _coquette_ than I am a fool, however well we play our parts."

"I mean to say that she clearly feels the effects of your behavior. In another husband, I would have applauded your circumspection. You, however, keep looking for reason after reason to keep on with your little charade."

Percy winced.

Aziraphale's face softened. "Doesn't it tire you?"

"That does seem to be the catch, doesn't it?" Percy said heavily. He shook his head and slunk back to his chair. "It wouldn't so much, if I didn't have to play the part with Marguerite. And yet I... I confess, I fear that if I let it slip before her, even a fraction, why, the whole thing will come tumbling down. And I simply cannot risk that."

"So you say," Aziraphale sighed. "I suspect you risk just as much by staying at a distance." Percy made a woebegone face, and Aziraphale smiled, rueful and gentle in equal measure. "Well. I understand, I think. You'll find the right time for it; I suppose one can't rush this sort of thing. For now, you ought to get some rest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yer author has very fond memories of singing the Chorus of the Furies during their freshman year of college and was not going to pass up the bit in book!Scarlet Pimpernel where they actually go see Orphee et Eurydice. You can listen to it here! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRfiFJxbegc  
Chapter title is exactly what it says on the tin and also a Queen album.  
Come find me on tumblr at waters-and-the-wilde! The fic tag is 'fools and angels,' which is also where I hoard fan art of entities in cravats.


End file.
